Burning It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 16)

by Kati Wilde

  Then he’s kissing me again, long and slow, before he says, “I’d never want you to stop.”

  “A damn good thing, because I wouldn’t have.” No matter how he begged. He’s mine now. “Also, you just jizzed all over my dad’s old truck.”

  A laugh shakes through him. “I’ll wash it.”

  “Don’t.” I pull him close again. “The asshole is probably rolling over in his grave. So I kind of like it, in a fucked up and spiteful way.”

  “Then I’ll jack off on it every day.”

  God. Laughing hurts too damn much. But then Jack kisses me again, and all the hurt in the world couldn’t stand against the sweetness of it.

  And despite the pain, everything is perfect.

  Chapter Three

  Lily

  Everything is fucked.

  I should have known. I’ve earned my place. I don’t have anything left to prove. But for some of these guys, asking them to treat me like any other patchholder requires them to perform crazy mental gymnastics—and do it with brains so inflexible they can’t even touch their fucking toes.

  So now I’m sitting here and listening to the executive board debate whether the Riders should go in and take the Hangmen out…and if they do, whether I should be allowed to accompany them. And I’m trying to keep cool. Only a few meetings ago, the prez skinned me for losing my temper and tossing another brother onto his ass. But this shit, man. It could make even the Dalai Lama’s head explode.

  The meeting started out okay, too. Three things on the agenda. One was whether we should hold a vote at the next general meeting to patch in one of the prospects. One was about looking into the Cage, and trying to find out whether the fighters disappearing really did end up in some crazy death match.

  Jack brought that in and set it up for the others without once mentioning Creek. Instead he laid it out simply: we need a way to take down the Hangmen without bring attention to the Riders. A few months ago, we burned down the Eighty-Eight’s compound, and—thanks to Jack and his stash of smuggled weapons—the Eighty-Eight and their higher-ups think the feds did it, and the feds think a cartel took the skinheads out. If we go after the Hangmen now, there’s going to be some eyes looking hard at the Riders, and maybe some retaliation coming from the Eighty-Eight’s other chapters, which totals more than two thousand skinheads strong.

  We’re strong, but not that strong.

  The Riders have friends, though. And that’s who we’ll be reaching out to. If we connect the Devil’s Hangmen to the fuckers who are killing off patchholders from other MCs, it won’t be just us against them. No one will have reason to look at us too close.

  But setting up those meets takes time and traveling money, which the board has to approve. Jack won’t be the only one visiting the other clubs, either. Gunner and Stone are both regulars up in the ring during bike rallies; they’ve been up against some of the missing men and have solid contacts at other MCs.

  The vote goes through easy. Stone and Gunner agree to make the first visit that weekend, which suits Jack fine, because I know he’s still waiting to hear from Creek about whatever cargo the Hangmen will supposedly be moving soon.

  Creek told him one or two weeks. It’s the end of the second week now. We expected Sherlock to make a grab for me, but no one’s even seen the Hangmen around.

  But of course that brings us to the third item on the agenda: the Hangmen, and discussing our options if the Riders have to move against them, or if the Cage stuff doesn’t pan out. And specifically, the question on the agenda is the extent of my involvement if it all goes to hell.

  The scenario where the Hangmen grab me and the Riders charge in? I’m fine with that. It’s the other scenario that has my peach-fuzz smoking, the one where the Hangmen push us so far that we don’t have any other choice but to push back. Like the Eighty-Eight did, when they killed one of our brothers and shot our prez.

  I was part of the small group of Riders who took out the Eighty-Eight. I had my brothers’ backs, using a sniper rifle to cut down any skinheads coming at them, and I took a fucking bullet in return. But now they want to sideline me?

  Hell no.

  If my injuries were the reason, okay. But we’re talking about shit that’ll happen down the road and it’s been three weeks since my fight with Croc. My fingers and wrist are out of their splints and I’m back at work. Not flying yet, but maintaining the aircraft engines again. My ribs are still twinge-y, but I’m mostly good there. I can’t run or fight on this cast but I’m not using crutches anymore; I can put weight on it. A few more weeks and there shouldn’t be a single issue.

  There shouldn’t be. But some of these guys always come up with something. And the worst part of it is they’re doing it to protect me.

  Not having my back, but standing as my shield. And it’s pure bullshit.

  Well, most of it. Some of it’s true. But that’s always the goddamn problem, because they use truth to back up bullshit thinking.

  Like when Knucklehead comes out with, “Look, we know assholes like this target women first. Like the Eighty-Eight did to the prez’s woman. Or when they took out your ride, Zoomie. You never even looked twice at them before that, but they looked at you. Because, well, look at you.”

  Because I wore a kutte and rode a beautiful custom bike, and some men just hate women who step out of place. Some men want to destroy any woman who does. I knew that was the reason; I always knew it. I’m just surprised Knucklehead is that perceptive; I figured he was the one who requested the agenda item in the first place, because he could tattoo MISOGYNIST across his forehead and never see any difference when he looked into the mirror.

  Then he ruins the tiny bit of goodwill he built up when he adds, “It’s the same with the Hangmen. So if we move against them, they’ll look for you. They’ll target you. And it won’t be enough to put a bullet in your head; they’ll do other shit to you first. We all know it. They’ll hold you down and each take a turn. And knowing that’ll happen if shit goes wrong will throw all of us off. Rip our guts out.”

  God, I tried. But I can’t keep my mouth shut after that. “So you’re telling me that in a scenario where I’m gang-raped, your primary concern is how you’re going to feel?”

  He spreads his hands. “I’m just saying. They’ll try to get their hands on you and hurt us with it.”

  “So I should just, what—sit in the clubhouse and play with my tits?” I shoot a look at the prez. “Did I not hold my own against the Eighty-Eight?”

  “You did,” he says simply. He hasn’t been putting much into the discussion yet. Mostly just letting the other brothers talk.

  Same with Jack, but that shit’s complicated. He opens his mouth to support me and it could go backward. So he just sits quietly next to me, listening and wearing his Don’t give a shit face.

  But he does. I suspect he’s probably had this same argument with himself a thousand times since we hooked up. I know it killed him to watch while Croc pounded on me. Jack could have taken that bastard down so easily, but instead he let me do my job—because he knew I’d lose everything if he stepped in.

  I have so many reasons to love him. But knowing how he held back despite his need to protect me, knowing how he understood and respected who I am…it meant everything to me. I’d have loved him for that alone.

  Fortunately, he’s not the only one in this club who knows me inside and out. I look to Gunner. “You had your ass trapped against the side of a house while I cleared a path for you. I took a bullet and cleaned up the mess. Do you think I should sit this one out?”

  “No,” he says. “Knucklehead’s right that they’ll target you. But I know you don’t break easy.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s questioning whether you’ve got balls, Zoomie,” Duke puts in, looking pained. Probably torn between both sides of the argument. He’s all right, most of the time. But it’s hard to forget that, five years ago, he walked away from the Riders because they let me in. He’s come around about my being in the
club but he’s got an protective streak around women.

  Which is fine, if the women like that kind of thing. I sure as fuck don’t.

  Bull leans in and adds his first bit of the day. “Considering that she sleeps naked next to Blowback, I figure she’s got bigger balls than anyone else in this room. Especially if you’ve heard his Peru story.”

  Shit. I haven’t heard his Peru story. But whatever it is, recalling it makes half the brothers around the conference table cringe and look anywhere but at Jack. The other half laugh, as if agreeing they’d rather sleep on a bed of razors than next to Jack, and the laughter breaks the rising tension. But that’s Bull. Always cracking some joke to defuse a situation. A big grizzly bear of a biker with a non-confrontational Winnie the Pooh heart.

  Non-confrontational until it comes time to throw down, that is. Then his fists are like hammers. And that’s fair enough. Not everyone likes a fight as much as I do.

  Except I’m not really enjoying this one. My stomach’s a fucking knot. Because if I get sidelined once because someone is worried about how seeing me hurt will make them feel? I’ll always be sidelined.

  They might as well just put the bullet in my head themselves.

  “Look,” I say. “I get that you don’t want to see another Rider hurt. You don’t want to see a girl hurt.” I have to spit that out. “But leaving me on the bench will hurt anyone who goes up against the Hangmen more than it’ll help them. That’s a brother who will go in without someone to watch his back. That’s a gun that doesn’t have anyone to pull the trigger or lay down cover. That’s two fists that could be pounding a Hangman’s face in. The rest of it—the worry about what’ll happen to me? It’s just a mental game. Something assholes like that use to make their enemies drown in doubt. It’s them beating us before we ever head in. And if someone can’t do their job because I’m a woman, then I’m not the fucking problem.”

  Jack says flatly, “War often is a mental game. Not ‘just’ one. Because mental games can cause big fucking problems.”

  His response is a knife in my gut. Though maybe he didn’t mean it to be. I can’t tell. His eyes are dark and empty, his gaze steady.

  He wouldn’t tear me down. He wouldn’t. But he would challenge me—push me to do better.

  And, okay. Maybe saying that feelings don’t matter is shit. They can be used to inflict more hurt. They do affect how people act.

  They don’t need to be the chains that hold someone else back. “All right. That’s true. And the last war I was in? I flew more missions than anyone else in my unit. So I’ll tell you what my superiors and the other airmen never said. ‘Geez, Zoomie. This might be dangerous for you, so why don’t you stay at the base this time?’ No. They told me if I went down, if I got captured, shit was going to get real fucking bad. Then they told me to hold on. To do whatever I need to survive. And they told me if all that shit happened, they’d come for me as soon as they could and mow the fuckers down. That’s all I expect here. And it’s what I’d do for any of you.”

  Silence.

  I’m sure someone will come up with another argument sometime. But right now, I think they’re argued out.

  My heart’s pounding when I look to the prez. This won’t be a vote. He’ll just make a decision one way or another.

  Slowly he nods. “I didn’t give you a patch just to watch you sit on your ass,” he says and his steely gaze moves to Jack. “And I don’t want this shit coming down to a shootout between us and the Hangmen. It will if they touch Zoomie. We need to keep them off her until we can connect with other clubs and hang it all on this cage fight. So if any Hangman gets to her, that’s on you.”

  What the hell? That’s not fair. And completely fucking unnecessary. Jack would always have my back.

  But the prez isn’t even ordering him to have my back. He’s ordering him to be my shield. Protecting me and the Riders—so that the club can avoid the Eighty-Eight’s retaliation and the fed’s microscope.

  It’s all…exactly what Jack would want.

  The billowing relief that followed the prez’s decision settles into a thick, heavy weight in the middle of my gut. It grows heavier as the meeting wraps up and the brothers start filing out. Beside me, Jack’s not moving, and I can’t even fucking look at him.

  A lot of the brothers are uneasy around him. He is scary. But not for the reason most of them think; it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with how many ways he can kill someone with his bare hands. No, the real scary shit is the way Jack thinks. The way he can see a goal, set everything up so it falls like dominoes, right where he wants…and doesn’t leave a trace of himself behind.

  Like the way we were able to take out the Eighty-Eight without any shit coming back on us. And the way Jack killed the enforcer Croc sent after him when the Hangmen first showed up—deliberately making sure Croc targeted him, then turning the enforcer’s death around to look like an accident, so that it wouldn’t start a war between the clubs. He’s been the boss’s right hand for a long time, and I knew he stopped a lot of trouble before it started, but until I hooked up with him, I didn’t realize how much trouble he stopped and how many dominoes he arranged. Because he never left that trace.

  But I see a trace now. Because the prez hides it well, but I’m pretty damn sure the boss is pissed off at him. It’s in the way he’s sitting, just staring at Jack, and not saying a damn word as everyone else takes off. It’s in the last order he gave him, and how he laid the responsibility for my safety right on Jack’s shoulders.

  That was damn fucking cold. Saxon is mean, but he’s not usually that cruel. Especially to a brother. So the only explanation for laying it on Jack is that he’s pissed.

  He’s still pissed as he finally rises from his chair and heads to the door—and I figure my one chance at knowing the truth of this is about to leave with him.

  “Boss,” I say, and every word seems to scrape my throat raw. “Who put that last item on the agenda?”

  I know he won’t say. Unless a board member reveals it himself, that info is kept confidential so delicate shit can be brought to the table without blowing back onto a brother. But his gaze shoots to Jack, and his voice is like stone as he says, “Telling you would cause big fucking problems.”

  Big fucking problems. Just like emotional shit can cause. Just like mental games can cause.

  Just like Jack said.

  Yeah. I thought so.

  The door closes softly behind him. I want to get up. I want to run from the hurt ripping through my gut.

  I want to punch Jack’s fucking face in.

  “So it must have been fun watching that play out,” I tell him, but I don’t sound pissed. Instead my voice sounds full and thick, and wobbling right on the edge of crying. God damn it. “Because I know you’ll never let it get to the point where the Riders are shooting it out with those fuckers, so the whole question of my being there doesn’t even matter. So what was the endgame? You felt you had to strong-arm me into accepting your protection?”

  “Not you,” Jack says hoarsely. “Not you, Lily. Strong-arming you is what I’m trying not to do.”

  Oh, the bastard. How goddamn dare he sound ripped up? How goddamn dare he look at me like that, with his dark eyes as desolate as a fucking wasteland.

  “Then what the hell was it about? Do you like seeing me on the edge of losing every fucking thing I’ve fought for? Again?”

  “No. God, Lily.” Despair lines his face when reaches for me and I flinch away. He freezes for a long second, his eyes emptying. His hands curl into fists and he sits back. “The boss would never pull you out.”

  Another knife slashes through my stomach. “So the prez fucking knew what you were playing, too?”

  “No.”

  I don’t understand. “You wanted the prez pissed at you? Were you strong-arming Saxon? Into doing what?”

  “Putting the responsibility for your safety in my hands,” he says, and although his voice is flat, he’s rubbing at the center of his chest lik
e it hurts him. “So that when I go after the Hangmen, it’s not because I’m protecting you. Instead it’s what the boss put on me.”

  I stare at him. Not because I’m protecting you. Except by doing this, none of the brothers would ever be able to suggest that Jack took out the Hangmen because I couldn’t handle the threat on my own. No one could say Jack had to bail me out of danger.

  I couldn’t say it, either. I could never accuse him of standing as my shield. He would just be doing what the boss said to do.

  How do I even process that? “So you didn’t want me to know that you are protecting me.”

  His eyes close and he rubs at his chest, rubs while his throat works. But he doesn’t say anything. Just rubs and looks like he’s suffering all the levels of hell.

  Good. So he feels like I do.

  My breath hitches when I try to speak again. “Do you think I’m so fucking stupid that I can’t see the difference between you—the Riders’ warlord—taking out a threat to a patchholder, and you—the man I’m in love with—standing as my shield?”

  “Lily.” His face is haggard when he opens his eyes, his gaze bleak as it meets mine. “There is no fucking difference. I’m that warlord. I’m that man. And if I can protect you while I’m protecting the club, I fucking will.”

  So he does think I’m stupid. Or maybe I just am. Because my heart is hurting, and my head is hurting, and I still don’t understand why he didn’t just tell me what I was walking into.

  And now I’m too close to it. Too close to him. And too full of all these goddamn emotions that cause so many big fucking problems.

  Blinded by a flood of sudden, stupid tears, I nod and get to my feet. “Okay. Whatever. I’m heading home.”

  I hear the breath he sucks in, sharp and ragged. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say anything until my hand’s on the door, and then the world fall apart around me.

  Because he asks, “You want me to start bunking somewhere else?” but his question sounds like it’s echoing from a corpse’s chest, as if he’s already sure of the answer and it’s killing him.